


Castle of Ice

by lonevvanderer



Series: Night Gathers [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A major character death has occured, Aftermath of 'Night Gathers', Anger, Anti-Sansa, Boatbaby (Game of Thrones), F/M, Family Drama, I apologise, It just ended up being the vibe, POV Sansa Stark, Protectiveness, Sansa is bitter, season 8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27690622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonevvanderer/pseuds/lonevvanderer
Summary: ~Sansa grapples with her new reality.[Set post-'Night Gathers' - reading of that fic is highly recommended, if not essential]
Relationships: Beth Cassel/Bran Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Robin Arryn/Sansa Stark
Series: Night Gathers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915621
Comments: 25
Kudos: 25





	Castle of Ice

Sansa sat in the wooden chair to the right of her brother, her chin resting in her gloved palm. Winter had begun to set in truly now, the heated springs underneath Winterfell barely able to keep up with the howling cold outside. Sansa hated the feel of her numb nose in the morning, and was still wriggling it in the hopes warmth would return to her face.

The lords in front of her grumbled, their weary faces not happy to hear that their Warden had called them at so early an hour. Many were forced to stay with their households, here in Winterfell, while reconstruction struggled to begin in the Northern keeps decimated by the Army of the Dead. Sansa pitied them - unable to return to their homes and crammed in with a dozen other lords in Winterfell’s crowded guest wings. Some _could_ return, of course, but Sansa sensed the political mood was tense, and no man wished to be away from the action.

“Greetings, my lords,” Bran called out evenly.

Sansa straightened then, dusting away the creases of her grey-black dress underneath the table. The sound of Bran in authority still stung her ears, and the obedient murmurs of the lords as he commanded their attention did nothing to soothe her bitter soul.

“You must wonder why I gathered you here so early - though I know all of you have already had time for breakfast.” Bran continued, a small smirk on his face. “I have important news to tell you, which will be delivered quicker by my eyes and mouth than the wings of a southern bird.”

The lords’ ears piqued then, their eyes immediately drawn in to hear what he had to say - as was Sansa’s.

“The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros has itself an heir. Queen Daenerys has given birth to Jon’s daughter, and has named her Lyanna,” He declared, his voice filled with unnatural glee.

A few cheers, drinks raised in the air. ‘Princess Lyanna’ a few cried out, overjoyed by the news of such a Northern name, no doubt. Sansa didn’t react and kept her cold face straight forward, unfeeling.

“A beautiful name!” One of the lords cried out.

“The White Wolf lives on!” Another said amidst the chattering.

One man stood, his gloved hand wagging furiously at the previous speaker. “No, he does not!”

A few turned to look at him, discontent in their elder eyes, as the man continued to ramble.

“The Dragon Queen will make that little girl a Targaryen Queen in turn! Jon Snow’s blood or no, that girl is not one of us - I don’t care what she is called!” He continued.

Sansa glared at him, shaking her head slightly at how brazen he was being. _Speak your treasons, my Lord,_ Sansa thought _, but not in the main hall, where all manner of men may hear_.

“Lord Umber, sit down,” Bran said, breaking through the silence which had gathered at the conclusion of his words. 

“The dragonlords steal from us, my Lord! This _princess_ will steal from us too! Another creation of incest, for Jon Snow was merely pretending to be a wolf!” The young Umber raged, his features so strikingly similar to the father Daenerys had burned for treason not a year earlier.

At that, various lords stood, still loyally defensive of their dead king. Many of them had been in King’s Landing and had lost sons and brothers in Cersei Lannister’s firestorm. They had forgotten their hatred of the Targaryens then, when the only murderer they could find had hair of gold instead of silver. Jon’s death would not be forgotten by the brave men in this hall - Sansa only hoped they would one day realise the part the Dragon Queen had played in it.

But Jon had been her brother still - Arya had told her to remember that - and what sort of sister would she be if she let the ravings of this foolish man continue?

“How dare you speak ill of your king, Lord Umber!” Sansa yelled boldly from her seat.

“Aye, he was a king! Then he gave it away to the woman who butchered my father!” Umber continued, his face near purple with gluttonous rage. “My offence is not aimed at Snow, but at the whore he married! Without our consent! Without a thought for the North!” 

Sansa could tell some agreed, if only privately. He was a second Tohrren Stark. The second King who knelt. Few of the men who desired independence would forgive him for that, in this lifetime at least.

“Lord Umber! Watch your tongue! Your family is already on thin ice with the Queen as it stands, so I advise you not to push your luck!” Bran yelled, his hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair.

Sansa was not sure where his loyalty for Daenerys had come from - for he did not strike her as the type to believe in her ‘new world’. Bran didn’t believe in anything.

“You’re one of them too, Lord Stark! Robb would be ashamed!” Umber cried out again.

“I don’t think he would be,” Bran replied. Something was colder about his voice this time, unforgiving. It frightened Sansa a little, because it barely sounded like Bran.

Lord Umber sat down, half-dragged down by the lords at his side, and unable to continue his rage in the face of a dozen lords with their hands on their swords. They had forgotten: forgotten the Mad King, forgotten their oppression. They saw a beautiful Queen and her dragons and bowed before her. Umber was right, Sansa realised. Robb would be disgusted with them - prostrated in front of Dragon Queen and her daughter at the expense of their freedom.

Robb had tried. Jon had tried. Each time, they had named a King in the North. Third time lucky, perhaps - though such a thought made Sansa almost laugh. They were in the depths of winter, with no men and barely any food. It would be a pitiful fight, should Umber decide to _push his luck_.

“I have nothing else to add, my Lords,” Bran called out. “I ask that we pray to the Old Gods to watch over the Princess, a child of the North.”

Sansa side-eyed him. Bran was not the religious type, and this princess was not a _child of the north_. She was a quarter Stark and had been born in the South. Let the Seven watch over the Targaryen Princess, so the Old Gods may look after their own.

The lords filed out, some patting each other on the shoulder in morning greetings, their smiles hopeful for a stable peace. The throne now had itself an heir, so their children would be spared a succession crisis in the years to come. Optimistic, Sansa believed, for once the lack of son loomed over them, the claws would no doubt come out. The sun shone brilliantly in the sky right now, but it was rebellion that loomed on the horizon, in truth.

“Sansa, remember,” Bran whispered, his look idle. Sansa prepared to stand from her seat, ignoring him. “There will not be a third.”

Sansa shot him a glare, her lips curling up in a barely contained snarl. No one else needed to know about her conversation with the Queen, and she didn’t appreciate Bran’s snooping. She stood, her dress fluttering behind her as she pushed the chair across the stone and walked away.

“There will not be a third,” Bran uttered again, as Sansa fled from the room and into the cold outside.

* * *

The ink that stained her hands was annoying her, smudging onto the parchment as she wrote. And wrote. And wrote. So many letters, a desperate attempt to pull together enough provisions for the rest of winter. She’d had enough, once, for the lords to stay through winter - but such well won stores had been burned to a crisp when the dead had descended on her home.

Sansa had been back and forth between the lords of the Reach, trying to wrench at least some grain from them. Much to her chagrin, however, what little had remained of the Reach’s farmland was striving to provide directly to the crown. Sansa almost had to laugh, for they had always said there was the same amount of people in King’s Landing than there was in the North - though she supposed that wasn’t true anymore, was it? She understood, of course, that they must obey the Queen’s commands, but surely a whole kingdom was worth more than a charred city?

The words splayed out in ink in front of her were as polite as she could muster, aimed directly at Lord Florent, the newly named Warden of the South. He had no unmarried sons, however, so she could not even offer herself in trade.

_What does the North have,_ Sansa thought bitterly _, except snow and angry men?_

Oh, the official declaration had been lovely, of course. Why would it not? Glorious Queen Daenerys had bravely brought an heir into the world - despite the loss of her dear Lord Husband. Arya had brought the pretty parchment not a few days ago, weeks behind the _actual_ news. It had mattered little, however, for the Northern lords had rejoiced at young Lady Arya’s trip home.

As if right on cue, the short brown hair of Arya Stark popped around the wooden door on the far side of the room, her eyes curious. There was a hint of unease, however, for this was the same room Sansa had once wrangled the truth about Jon from her. Sansa had barely seen her sister save for dinner. Arya had spent the majority of her time with Bran, or with the stonemasons making sure Jon’s likeness would be correct in the crypts below. There would be no bones, no ashes. Just a statue, to a king without a crown.

“How’s everything going?” Arya asked quietly, any sense of childhood bravado marred by grief for her home and brother.

“Fine,” Sansa replied bluntly, not looking at her.

Who was she to ask _how things were going_? She had refused to come home, to return to her family. She had chosen Queen Daenerys over Winterfell, and for that, Sansa decided Arya didn’t need to know how things were going.

Arya stood, mere paces away, her expression blank.

“Well, that’s a fucking lie,” She said, half-laughing, half-furious.

Sansa looked up then, her nostrils flaring at her sister’s brazen attitude. She was still technically Lady of Winterfell, and if this was how Arya thought their mother should have been treated…

“Look at you,” Arya continued, cutting off her thoughts. “You’re surrounded by enough pieces of paper to fill the citadel, and you’ve been walking around on a bloody warpath since I’ve got here.”

“Your point?” Sansa snarled.

Arya stepped forward, the tap of her hard leather boot on the stone floor echoing through the cold room.

“I’ve come home and you’ve said a grand total of three fucking words to me, Sansa,” Arya blurted out. “You didn’t even say hello!”

“Hello,” Sansa deadpanned.

Arya groaned, spinning on the heel of her foot to face the raging fireplace behind her. Sansa thought she saw her shake her head a little, but said nothing at the slight. She was in no mood to calm down her childish sister.

“She was right,” Arya whispered, more to herself than anything.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. She need not even ask _who_. The answer was obvious.

“Yes, well whatever the Queen has told you, I assume it must be right.” Sansa sneered.

Arya spun her head faster than lightning, her eyes flaring in fury - in defence of a woman with whom she shared no blood or bond. Sansa almost could have laughed. _So much for the pack._

“You’re ridiculous,” Arya whispered. “You don’t know what she said, but frankly, you don’t even care!”

“That would be correct,” Sansa replied bluntly, though even she knew she cared a little bit.

Arya walked towards her again, her small stature towering over the oak desk Sansa sat at. Sansa would have preferred her to sit down.

“She’s done nothing wrong, and yet all you do is hate her! I’m just trying to mend the rift between us all!” Arya carried on, her voice dripping with childhood naivety - an unfamiliar sound from the normally cold-hearted Stark.

“Nothing wrong?” Sansa seethed, standing unceremoniously from her seat. “If she hadn’t taken Jon south he’d still be alive!”

“You can’t seriously blame her for that!?” Arya retorted, anger dripping from her face. The incredulous snarl almost made Sana stop in her tracks, but she did not.

Sansa stood from the desk, her cold hands placed firmly on the oak below her. “I will do as I please! I knelt to her, but not for her!”

Arya simply shook her head. Slowly. The disappointment was plain on her face but Sansa did not care for it. Arya’s love for the Queen was naive - a desperate attempt to feel connected to Jon, and nothing more, Sansa knew. 

“You are dismissed, Arya,” Sansa said sharply as she sat down and continued working.

“I’m _dismissed_?! You’re not in charge here!” Arya squawked, her mouth agape. “Father would be ashamed!”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Do not presume to guess what father would think of us - you’re the one loyal to a Targaryen Queen.”

“And father defended his sister’s Targaryen son until his last breath! So do not sit there so glib, Sansa, that you think if father still lived he would be siding with _you_.” Arya replied. “I am an advisor to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are the unmarried and unlanded sister to the Warden of the North - not some rebel Queen. You are the lone wolf here!”

Sansa scoffed. “I am the only wolf left! You have traded your hide for treats.”

Arya sighed. “If you are the last wolf of Winterfell, Sansa… I pray it be the end of the Starks.”

“How dare you!” Sansa yelled, dismayed her sister would pray for such a thing.

“I dare!” Arya retorted. “I know where my loyalties lie. To Bran. To the North. To Queen Daenerys and little Lyanna! Because I love them, where you do not! You’re afraid of her, Sansa… and you fucking should be!”

Sansa shot her another look, unwilling to take her sister’s rantings any further. Arya shook her head once more, scoffing as she turned on her heel and towards the door. She whispered something else, softly under her breath, before slamming the door shut behind her with such a force that mites of dust feel from the stone wall either side of it.

* * *

Sansa wrung her hands in her lap, observing the feast around her. It was lively, yet less desperate than the one after the battle against the dead. Queen Daenerys had not entered the feast hall yet, having only arrived an hour or so ago - fashionably late, though the winter was beginning to set in hard, and Sansa could understand Daenerys’ reluctance to take her infant girl atop a dragon.

Bran sat in the centre long table, feet away from herself, condemned to the side table next to the Maester and the Captain of the Guard. Every once in awhile, he would shoot her a smile, friendly and familial - and Sansa would nod back. The months had been long, and with every passing day, Sansa could feel, _see_ , her influence wane and wither. No longer was she invited to meetings or the recipient of logistical letters and reports. No longer would Bran seek her advice when dealing with the lords, for they had calmed and turned their gazes from the freedom of Northern independence.

“All rise for the Queen!” A man yelled, his voice thick with an accent Sansa could not quite place - for she knew little of Essos and Slaver’s Bay. All in the room obeyed, even Sansa.

There she was, clad in red and black, a ribbon of silver braids falling down onto her sharp shoulders. Her tiara was small, inset and intertwined between a halo of braids at the upper back of her head. She looked very regal, and very pretty. Men and women nodded and bowed as she grazed past them, a sweet smile upon her face as some greeted her. In her arms, Sansa realised, was a small girl - barely a year old, perhaps, giggling and squealing with delight.

“Your Grace, we welcome you back to Winterfell. It’s always a pleasure to have you home.” Bran smiled.

Sansa wished to scoff but held it in. This wasn’t her home. Daenerys sat, babe on her lap, allowing the rest of the hall to resume their festivities. 

“And it is always a pleasure to see you, Lord Stark,” Daenerys replied.

Arya sat next to the silver Queen, watchful over the little princess. Arya, too, replied, but Sansa could not hear her over the music. A disgrace, Sansa thought, that she was locked out of such conversations between _family_.

Sansa stood, fluttering over to the main table to grab herself a flask of sweet wine. Instead of returning straight to her seat, however, she wandered to the head desk. All three of them looked to her as she approached - their expressions a mix of apprehension, and indifference.

“Lady Sansa, I did not see you earlier when I arrived, so I was unsure if you still remained in Winterfell. I hope you have been well.” Daenerys said politely, but her voice was strained and tired.

“I was occupied in the library, your Grace,” Sansa replied tensely with a small curtsey.

“I see,” Daenerys quietly smiled, but she did not break her gaze from the red-headed Stark. The Queen looked down to her little girl and smiled, but Sansa did not follow her gaze. “Isn’t she lovely, my lady?”

“Very, your Grace.” Sansa smiled. 

The girl cooed again, and Sansa spared a glance to the silver-truss atop her pale ahead and smiled slightly in return to the princess’ sweet smile.

“I cannot wait to see her grow,” Arya murmured to Daenerys’ side.

_Grow into what,_ Sansa thought bitterly.

“Yes, she will grow lovely. Lovely Lyanna.” Bran whispered.

Sansa despised the adoration for the young girl. Adored, simply for her mother’s mystic looks and her name. If the Dragon Queen had named her Rhaenyra, perhaps, would they love her so? Or Visenya? Or Alysanne? Sansa thought not. Love for Jon had blinded them, and underneath the soft red cloaks and silver hair, they could not see the scales and the fangs of a dragon.

“That reminds me, Lady Sansa. Your oath.” Daenerys said boldly. Something about the woman’s posture made Sansa realise she certainly had not just been ‘reminded’.

Sansa smiled tensely, placing down the deep red cup of wine directly in front of the Queen, before stepping back. She glanced behind her, desperately hoping few men were looking on to see her kneel. To her surprise, most were staring.

She gulped, knelt, and began.

“I, Sansa of House Stark, swear fealty to the one and only Queen of the Seven Kingdoms - Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals...” She paused. “...and the First Men.”

Daenerys nodded, satisfied with the audience behind her. Enough had seen without her needing to draw egotistical attention to it - and that was enough for her. Sansa rose again, snatching the cup of wine with as much as grace and care as she could muster while her blood boiled.

“Now, let’s leave the politics there shall we!” Daenerys chuckled. “Though, Lord Bran, I do wish to discuss what I mentioned in my letter at some point, about the councils - but we can leave that for private company, I think.”

Bran glanced at Sansa. “As you wish, your Grace.”

“And I must congratulate you! How rude of me to not open as such!” Daenerys smiled genuinely. Sansa still had not moved, still not dismissed. “Is Lady Cassel here tonight?”

Bran shook his head softly. “No, your Grace, she will be here in a few weeks - how long do you intend to stay?”

“Not too long, my lord, for Lyanna’s sake, but I hope long enough to see you wed,” Daenerys replied warmly.

Sansa flinched. “Wed?”

All three turned to her, and Sansa swore even baby Lyanna eyed her suspiciously as well.

“Yes, Lady Beth Cassel has accepted my proposal,” Bran replied curtly. “I’m sure she will excel in her duties as Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa had spent so long de facto in the position that Bran’s words felt like a dagger to the heart. _Beth Cassel?_ A loyal family, yes, but a small one. Insignificant on the political stage of Westeros. A waste of a marriage. A waste of a man and bride.

“Congratulations,” Sansa retorted. _You didn’t tell me_ , she wanted to say. _You didn’t say my time was up_.

Littlefinger had always said that the only way the ladder went was up, but it seemed he had been wrong. Powerless, Sansa bowed once more as Daenerys nodded, finally dismissing her - before fleeing the oppressive music of the hall and into the silence of the corridors of Winterfell.

* * *

It had taken her a few weeks to get to the Eyrie, and a weird sense of familiarity had washed over her when she had first seen the Bloody Gate. She was older this time, wiser this time, but still as afraid as before. Queen Daenerys’ peace was a fist, not an olive branch, no matter how she dressed it so.

The Vale had welcomed her, initially, and Robin had been delighted to see her. He was taller, but no less sickly and pale - yet his boyish features delighted when she flashed him a coy smile or rested a soft hand upon his spindly one. Yohn Royce had perished in Cersei’s firestorm, leaving the young Sweetrobin to his own devices in the Vale, and now he was a sick man rather than a sick boy, there were none to object when she privately offered him her hand as they sat next to the Moon Door.

Robin had asked her, the other day, whether she loved him, and she lied through her teeth once again - just as she had every time before. She had been here a few moons now, and gone now were the smiles of the knights who remained. They eyed her, warily. But yet, they did nothing, for they could not guess what it was that she wanted.

Protection? Power? Family? She wanted all of them and none at all. She wanted to stay on the ladder, to cling to the climb lest she falls. _Slut_ , some called her. _Lannister_. _Bolton_. Sansa ignored all of them. They can hate her for all she cared, for the Vale were not the North, and she did not need their love.

One day, though, she would make them love her.

**Author's Note:**

> Anti-Sansa, I know, but I feel like it comes from a place of (somewhat rational) reason considering the events of Night Gathers. Not intended as a scathing assault on Sansa's more self-centred, survivalist mindset, but as a window.


End file.
